Chapter 21 The Ancient Scroll Hides A Soul: The Crisis Of Soul Snatching

• Luo Shui Sect, Jiugong Peak. The waterfall thundered behind Tan Xuan, its mist clinging to the moss-smothered bluestone where he sat. Sunlight filtered through the canopy, dappling the bronze scroll in his hands with gold. Three days had passed since Lan Ziyan's arrival, yet the memory of her oceanic might still made his palms itch—now, his thumb traced the scroll's embossed dragons, their scales rough against his skin like ancient runes. Flipping through blank pages, he cursed under his breath. "Three days of skulking, and this is all the tomb yields?" A canine tooth sank into his thumb, and a bead of blood welled—thicker than usual, he noted, since the demon transformation. It splattered the scroll with a hiss. The metal warmed beneath his palm, humming like a struck bell. A cyan light erupted, not as a lance but a writhing serpent that dove into his eye. "Hahaha! A century in that gilded cage—FINALLY!" The voice in his mind was a rusted blade scraping stone. "I, Feng Lingzi, archmage of—" White-hot pain exploded behind Tan Xuan's eyes. He collapsed, forehead cracking against the bluestone. "G-get... the hell... out..." His vision swam with red veining, like spiderwebs across a broken mirror. "Out? I've only just unpacked!" A figure of pure light loomed, its edges blurring the waterfall behind it. "This puny frame will do nicely. Now, be a good host and—" "Like hell!" Tan Xuan's roar echoed off the cliffs. Images flashed: his old body hooked to machines, bones so brittle they creaked with every breath. His right hand shot up, and a longsword materialized—its hilt was ice, its blade a shard of his own fury. "You think... you can take this from me?" Feng Lingzi's laughter shook the trees. "Oh, this is rich. A babe with a butter knife dares—" His words cut off as Tan Xuan charged, blade aimed at the light figure's core. The sword sang with a sound like breaking ice. "Foolish insect!" A cyan wave erupted, shattering the blade into stardust. Tan Xuan flew backward, his spiritual form fragmenting into motes of light. Feng Lingzi inhaled them with a greedy gasp, but his satisfaction turned to horror as blood-red flames erupted on his spectral form. "NO! WHAT SORCERY IS THIS?" The light figure thrashed, ancient robes catching fire. "I'm a godling! I walked with the First Ancestors! You can't—" His words dissolved into a hiss as the flames burrowed into his essence. "Curse you, whelp! I'll—" A pained shriek cut through the waterfall's roar. An hour later, Feng Lingzi hovered before Tan Xuan, his form reduced to a wavering blue mist. The blood-cinnabar mark on his forehead pulsed with every breath—if spirits could breathe. "You..." he panted, "have bound me with... infernal flames." Tan Xuan woke with a gasp, hand shooting to his head. The bluestone was damp with his sweat, and the scroll lay at his feet, now etched with new runes. "Infernal flames? You're the one who—" "Silence!" Feng Lingzi's form flared, then dimmed. "Let's dispense with pleasantries. You won, I lost. Now, about that mark—" "Don't you dare come near!" Tan Xuan scrambled back, heels hitting the waterfall's edge. Cold spray hit his neck, jolting him awake. "Who are you? Why did you try to—" "Names are irrelevant." Feng Lingzi waved a translucent hand, and droplets of ectoplasm sizzled on the stone. "What matters is this: your blood hosts a power even I can't parse. So here's the bargain—" He leaned in, his form wavering between menacing and... desperate? "Teach me to master that flame, and I'll unlock the knowledge of a thousand epochs. Deal?" Tan Xuan stared at the glowing mark, then at his own hands—hands that had once been too weak to hold a cup, now capable of binding a godling. The waterfall thundered on, but all he heard was the rapid beat of his heart—and the quiet voice in his mind that whispered: *Maybe this curse is a key.* He reached for the scroll, its metal now warm as a living thing. "Deal," he said, "but first, start talking."